Bon Appetit!
by xAwesomeHeroX
Summary: Francis pays Arthur a visit and goes a little too far with his cooking comments. Next thing he knows he's being served a French course that a Vegan would surly hate for more then one reason. WARNING: Contains vore


**Hello~ So in case you didn't see the warning this contains vore. If you are easily made sick or don't enjoy vore I suggest you find something else to read. For some reason I myself have a strange liking to this genre and had way too much fun researching it .; Anyways, enjoy! If it failed to upset you in anyway, my apologies and I'll try to do better next time. Please review!  
><strong>

**Bon Appetite!~**

In the den was where Arthur usually sat when he had company. He had made sure his house was in tip-top shape even though it was just his half-brother visiting from France. The last thing he wanted was Francis chiding him about how dirty his house was. The Brit knew he would never hear the end of it.

Returning to Francis, from the kitchen, the emerald-eyed male set down a silver tray, that held a small tea-set on top of it, onto the coffee table in front of the couch. Just two white cups each, for them, with a simple white pot to match. A small bowl was filled to the brim with sugar cubes for Francis, of course, never Arthur. Unlike most people, he enjoyed his tea simple, just the leaves in boiled water and no sugar or cream. Perhaps some honey or mint, but, for the most part, it was usually kept simple.

After adding some sugar to his, Francis took a small sip of the tea and let out a pleased hum. "I swear the only thing you can make right is tea. It's probably the only thing that you can make that won't kill anyone," he teased casually with that heavy French accent Arthur hated so much.

Rolling his eyes, the Brit merely shook his head and took a calm sip of his own tea. "My cooking isn't _that_ bad. You all exaggerate about it," he responded simply, trying his best to be polite about it.

"Non, there's no exaggeration," he paused a moment in thought, "You've had to replace parts of your kitchen, four times now? It's a wonder you haven't burned down your own home."

"Bite your tongue," he responded sternly, shooting a glare from the corner of his eye. "I swear, if I do, I'll blame it on you now for cursing me with such luck."

"Now why would I curse my jeune frère?" he asked innocently with a bit of a playful smirk. "Magic isn't really my thing; I'll leave that to you and the other three from your side."

Now that he thought about it, Arthur did notice how his other three blood brothers were very much into magic and the occult like him. Why hadn't he realized that till now? Mentally shrugging, he pushed it off to the back of his mind as a later thought; one he might touch upon some other time. About to ask Francis something, the grandfather clock in the hallway rang loud and clear throughout the house signaling that it was now six o'clock in the evening.

"Oh my," Arthur started a bit frantic, "it seems we've lost track of time. I'm terribly sorry; I'll go get supper ready as soon as possible."

"N-non!" the older blond quickly said as the Brit got up from the couch to leave. Grabbing his wrist, Francis held him in place. "There's no need to," he responded with a bit of an awkward laugh. "Why don't we order something in? Or even go out? If you don't want to spend money, I can always cook something up for us, oui?"

Looking down at him, he frowned, obviously not thrilled with either suggestion. "Nonsense," he started, "Wot kind of host would I be if I were to not treat you to a home cooked meal? Besides, it's discourteous to have you cook for me; you're the guest."

Hanging his head a moment, Francis let him go and looked off to the side and out the window. Awkwardly, he scratched the back of his neck, his smile still uneasy. "Well, if you allowed one of those, you'd be a host saving my life," he mumbled hoping Arthur wouldn't hear.

Unfortunately for him, the Brit did. Glaring down at him, he balled his hands into fists, ready to hit him. "How many times need I tell you, my cooking isn't that horrible? When will you stop this childish banter and grow up?" he growled through clenched teeth.

Turning his attention back to him, Francis gave a small shrug. "Perhaps I will when you stop turning perfectly edible food into charcoal. Remember when you tried to make un pie for my anniversaire last year and it was flaking with bits of charcoal?"

"It was a cake you ungrateful prat!"

"It was? Well then that just proves my point all the more."

At this point, Arthur was growling dangerously. Forget trying to be a polite gentleman, this man deserved nothing from him. "I swear if you make one more comment about my cooking, I'll-"

"You'll what?" Francis chimed in before he could finish; unaware of the brewing danger. "You'll force me to eat those tasteless, stale things you call scones? They more taste like petrified couch stuffing then of food."

That was it. Arthur threw himself at the older male, holding his shoulders down to the couch and pinning him as he towered over him. Francis quickly brought his hands up in front of him and turned his head away, looking at him from the corner of his cerulean eyes. "C-come now Arthur, you know we Française are lovers not fighters, oui?" he said timidly.

Sandy blond bangs hid Arthur's blazing eyes. His teeth were clenched tightly and the hands that grabbed his shirt collar in their fists were shaking visibly. Francis had gone too far. He would make him regret greatly everything he said now and in the past. It was always like this since they were young. Except back then, Arthur would run away to his room crying instead of pouncing on his half brother. This time though, he would make sure he got what he deserved.

A small smile curled its way onto his face. There was something about it though. There was clear wickedness in it and soon it turned into a wide, sinister grin. Tilting his head upwards, the younger blond looked down to Francis with crazed eyes.

"A-Arthur?" he asked a bit frightened at this new look.

It only took Arthur half a second to reach out to his left and grab the small lamp that was on the table to the side of the couch. And it only took a second for him to bring it crashing down into Francis's head; a pained grunt escaping him before he fell unconscious.

The force of the blow caused the body of the lamp to shatter and a small cut made its self evident just at Francis's hairline. It stained his shoulder length, light blond hair crimson while a small, warm trickle of blood made it's way around the outside of his right eye and over his cheek down his jaw.

The sight of it caused a dark chuckle to come from Arthur. Crawling off the older male, the Brit looked down at him with crazed, joyous eyes. Humming gleefully, he immediately started to think of a way to punish him; rocking back and forth on his feet in excitement. It was at that moment that a dark, savage idea came to his mind.

XxXxXxX

Groaning quietly in pain, Francis started to regain consciousness, a while later. He tried to figure out where he was based where he was sitting, but all he could do was come to the conclusion that he was upright and not on the couch where Arthur had attacked him. _He must have moved me to another room,_ he thought to himself. Heavy eyes began to flutter as he groaned once more at the throbbing pain in his head. Shifting a bit he found it oddly difficult to move. Furrowing his brow, he finally opened his eyes and looked around. He was in Arthur's kitchen now, sitting at the table. He would have considered it normal, if it weren't for the fact that his hands were tied together around the back of the chair.

Struggling a bit in panic, he looked around to see if Arthur was there. No doubt he was the one who did this to him. He didn't know what the Brit was planning but one thing he knew for sure was he didn't want to find out. Tugging at the ropes that held his hands together, he tried his best to get free. Unfortunately, they were tied rather tightly, and the more he struggled, the more they ate into his wrists painfully.

"You're not going to get away," came a dark, amused voice from behind him.

Freezing at the voice, Francis dared not move. "A-Arthur?"

Casually, the Brit made his way over to the older blond and leaned against the table with the small of his back. "Did you have a nice nap? I thought you might want to rest while I got supper ready."

Trying his best to remain calm, Francis refused to look up at him. "Y-you know Arthur, I would be much more comfortable if you untied me. I'd be able to enjoy your cooking all the more."

Laughing lightly, Arthur shook his head and pushed off from the table and walked over to the stove where a pan full of oil sat. "But if I did that, you might run away. I want to make sure you enjoy my food; I just know you'll love it this time." Next to the stove was a small plate full of bread crumbs. Reaching over, he took a pinch of it and threw it into the oil; nodding in satisfaction as it began to simmer.

Biting his lip, Francis had one question on his mind that he wanted to ask. In his mind though, he knew he would not like the answer. Taking in a deep, ragged, breath, he released it to try and calm himself. He had to know. "What do you plan on making, Arthur?"

Delighted that he had asked, Arthur grinned maliciously. "It's nice of you to ask. I put quite a bit of thought into it, and I figured an English dish just wouldn't do. Then a thought came to mind. You must be a bit homesick. Perhaps I should try my hand at a _French_ dish instead."

The way he had said the last part sent a chill down the Frenchman's spine. What exactly was he planning? What was he going to do? "Now, I _know_ I'm a horrid cook," he said dryly in a sarcastic tone, "but I thought of something simple and I don't think you've ever tried it before." While he spoke Arthur went over to the sink and reached up to pull a dinner plate from the cabinet. Moving to the counter next, he grabbed a cloth napkin as well as a fork and knife from one of the drawers. Walking back over to Francis, he neatly set it all out before him, as if it were a normal dinner setting; though Francis knew full well that it was anything but normal.

Watching him, Francis tried to speak but couldn't find it in himself to do so. His mind told him it would be better to remain silent but he couldn't help it. Swallowing dryly, he managed to clear the heavy feeling in his throat enough so he could speak. "Wh-what is it you had in mind? I-I can't think of any French dish I haven't t-tried before."

Grinning, Arthur asked curiously, "Did you know, you literally are wot you eat? Meaning, wotever you eat throughout your life is wot you yourself will taste like." Looking down at his captive, Arthur licked his lips, enjoying the frightened look Francis held. "I'm sure by now you can tell where this is goi-"

"Please, Arthur! Je suis désolé!" Francis yelled, cutting him off. "I didn't mean for it to go this far, I really am sorry! I-I'm your brother-"

"You're my _half-_brother!" Arthur spat. Grabbing a handful of the other's soft, blond hair, he yanked it back roughly. "You're nothing more than a liar," he seethed, leaning in closer to him. "You always were and you never did anything but torment me. Well, now it's my turn. I'm going to get back at you, once and for all. I'll make sure you regret wot you've done to me over the years. Wot you are about to feel will be a good comparison."

"I'll do whatever you want; just please don't hurt me," he begged quietly.

Letting out an annoyed growl, the Brit jerked his head back once more. "Belt up! You really are pitiful; you torment those below you relentlessly, and once you run into someone bigger, you turn into nothing more than a pitiful, sniveling child!"

Closing his eyes against the pain in his head, a small whimper escaped him. "W-we were children Arthur; brothers! I-it's what brothers do…."

"No, Francis; it isn't! Brothers are supposed to look after each other, not cause them enough distress that they run away crying. Now, stop trying to convince me to stop!" Leaning in close to his ear, he whispered, "I'm going to make sure this dinner is perfect, just for you."

Francis started to tremble at the outburst; hardly able to believe this was happening. Staring at him, Arthur grinned devilishly and put a finger under his chin to tilt his head towards him so Francis was now looking at him slightly. "You always did have such pretty sky blue eyes," Arthur affirmed calmly, almost a reminiscent tone in his voice. The older male opened his eyes at his comment and furrowed his brow.

"What are-"

Before he could finish, the hand that held his chin shifted and made its way up to his left eye. His index finger was placed at his tear duct while his thumb went to the outer corner. Without a second's hesitation, he plunged the two fingers into his eye socket; wrapping them around the wet, almost firm, organ.

When he felt the finger at his eye, Francis froze, only to cry out as an excruciating pain surged through his head. His body began to thrash about; as if he were trying to run from the pain though he was tied to the chair. As soon as his thrashing began, Arthur pulled away, taking a few steps back. Francis' arms struggled violently against the binds, wanting so badly to hit his assailant; wanting to claw and beat him until the pain he felt subsided. But again, he was bound and defenseless; completely at Arthur's mercy.

Closing his eyes tightly, tears streamed down his now reddened face, though the tears from the left began to mix with blood. Staring at the picture before him, Francis shrieking in pain as he tried to flail pointlessly while tears cascaded from his eyes, Arthur couldn't help but sneer. Stealing his attention away from the pitiful male a moment, he looked down to his left hand. In it he carefully held between his thumb and index finger a round, white orb with a small ring of sky blue then black in it. He was holding one of Francis' eyes. Bringing it closer to his face so he could see, he then raised it high above his head so he could watch the light reflect off of it.

"The lights give it such a pretty color," he stated with a bit of a mesmerized tone. "Tell me Francis, can you see me right now with this eye?"

He didn't answer. He didn't even hear the question. His mind at the moment was clouded with a pain he had never felt before; a pain he would never want to feel a second time around.

Turning away from him, Arthur made his way over to the stove. Carefully he peeled away the pink nerves from the back of the eye and placed it on the plate of breadcrumbs. Carefully, he began stirring it around with a finger. Once a thin shell covered the majority of it, he plucked the organ from the plate and dropped it into the pan of heated oil; causing it to splatter and lightly spit for a moment. Watching the oil simmer for a second, Arthur started to make his way back to Francis.

To his dismay the older male had stopped his screaming and was now sobbing quietly to himself, a few whimpers escaping him as well. Once he was near enough, Arthur draped his arms over his shoulders, causing the Frenchman to stiffen. Wrapping his arms around his neck from behind, the Brit nuzzled the back of his head gently and oddly enough in a loving manner, cooing to him quietly.

"Can you smell it, luv? My mouth is just _watering_ from anticipation," he commented quietly against his ear; his hot breath causing another whimper to escape Francis. Watching the blood that continued to drip from his empty eye, he leaned in a bit closer to lap it up; causing Francis to shy away.

"Please... Just st-stop…." he pleaded, his voice hoarse from his wailing.

Letting out a bit of an amused hum, he made it seem as if he were actually contemplating the act. "Sorry, but I think not. I quite enjoy hearing your tormented screams; they're almost like a child's laughter or even a beautiful ballad." With his right hand, he positioned his fingers just like before. "Now sing for me once more, dear 'bother'," he whispered again as he once more drove his fingers into the other eye socket.

Throwing his head back, he shrieked once more in pain as his body began to convulse violently. Pulling away, Arthur skipped backwards a few steps before twirling around to face the stove and happily trot over; only to stop and frown at the sight before him. The eye he had put into the pan was now nothing more than a white, crumby mush. Letting out a soft sigh, he switched off the stove and moved the pan to a cooler section on the stove.

"Well that's unfortunate," he muttered, disappointed. "I suppose I should have thought this through a bit more." Glancing at the eye he still held, he stared at it in thought, trying to think of a way to cook it. Then a thought came to mind. If he couldn't fry it, then perhaps he could bake it.

Pulling a new pan from one of the bottom cabinets, he filled it a bit with water then placed the eye in it once he removed the nerves and popped it into the oven. Setting it to bake, the Brit looked to Francis over his shoulder. Once again he had calmed though even from a few feet away, he could tell he was trembling greatly. "Unfortunately I accidentally ruined the first eye," he told in an apologetic manner. "Don't worry though; I won't let this one go to waste. It'll be a bit before it's done however." Going over to the cabinet that held the plates, he pulled a wine glass from one of the top shelves. "In the meantime, we can continue on with something else."

Before returning to Francis, he grabbed a long, sharp, serrated knife from the knife holder on the counter. Placing the knife and glass on the table, he pulled Francis' chair away from the table a foot or so.

Francis' eyes were closed, the eyelids falling a bit into the empty, bleeding sockets. He still continued to sob blood-mixed tears as his body shook uncontrollably. Surely at this point the nerves in his eyes were cut off by his brain. It was probably why he was relatively calm now.

As he was pulled away from the table, he hung his head a bit; it swaying side to side. What was going to happen to him now? What other form of torture did he have planned out? Both of his eyes were now gone, so what else was there to go for? "W-what more a-are you going to do?" he asked in a raspy voice.

Looking to him, amused by the question, Arthur answered, "I figured your throat must hurt from all of your screaming. I can only imagine how thirsty you are. I have a rather nice wine that I thought you might enjoy. It's a bit young, but it's sure to please." Leaning over him once more from behind, he reach in front of him and began to undo the buttons to his white dress shirt.

Swallowing dryly, Francis cringed at his words. After having his eyes stolen, he could only figure that this 'wine' wasn't what he was imagining. Then, he heard something being picked up from the table. "Wh-what are you doing? What is that!"

Once he was done with his shirt, Arthur had tried to pick the knife up as quietly as possible though that didn't quite work. Running his right hand through the Frenchman's hair, he cooed to him into his ear in an attempt to calm him. "It's nothing you need worry about, love. Just relax and I'll give you something for your throat."

Bringing the blade of the knife to the beginning of his abdominals, Arthur pressed it into his taut skin and slid it across; just enough to cut into the muscle. As soon as the blade pierced his flesh, Francis screamed once more in terror and pain; thrashing about. Quickly Arthur grabbed the wine glass from earlier and brought it to the gash; collecting the dripping crimson inside of it. The glass quickly filled to about a third of the way. Pulling it away, he brought it up to the light, noting how none of it shone through. Bringing it to his nose he took a small sniff of it and sighed in content then brought it to his lips and took a small sip. Humming quietly, he placed it to Francis' lips, "It tastes delicious. You'll be missing out if you don't try some."

Teeth chattering from his trembling, he hesitantly opened his mouth. He didn't want to drink it but he couldn't help it. He was so thirsty, his throat hurt so much. The glass was tilted slightly and the warm liquid came rushing into his mouth. Francis wanted to gag, it tasted so horrible. It was as if he were drinking liquid rust though it was so smooth. The glass was drained soon enough and when it was pulled away, the blond let out a deep cough; wanting to throw up.

Smirking, Arthur placed the glass down once more and brought the knife back to his abdominals. "Wasn't it wonderful? If you give me a moment, I'll have our first course ready." Starting from the corner of the current gash, he slowly brought the knife down, and sliced just enough into the muscle but no further. Making a gash parallel to that one, he set the knife down on the table and pulled the flap of flesh away.

At this point Francis couldn't feel anything. He was sobbing and terrified but felt nothing. His mind had already shut off his pain receivers and all he could feel was the pressure and something, his blood he guessed, draining from him.

Curiously, the Brit poked around in his insides until finally he pulled his liver from the mass of organs. Placing the bloody organ on the plate, he grabbed the cloth napkin to wipe the blood on his hands. Taking up the knife once more, he began to slice strips off the bloody thing. Once a few pieces were cut, he used the fork and examined one of them. "You know, it really is odd seeing such a thing on the outside. Even if you've seen pictures, it still doesn't quite account for the real thing."

"W-what are you talking about? I-I can't s-see….." Francis asked pathetically, feeling as if something were missing.

"Hm?" Averting his gaze to Francis, he let out a small chuckle. "Right, right, your eyes. I was referring to your liver. Tell me, do you think it'll taste like an animals? I wonder if perhaps it's like everything else and tastes like chicken." Popping the piece in his mouth, he closed his eyes and savored the taste. He found the meat a bit hard to chew though the texture was smooth and tender-seeming. Unable to really break it up, he settled on swallowing the bit whole. "I suppose it has a taste of its own," he finally stated. Skewering another piece, he placed it close to Francis' lips. "Now it's your turn. You're good at placing a taste on food; why don't you tell me wot it tastes like to you? Wot do they say in France…? Oh! Bon Appetit!"

Giving a hesitant nod, Francis opened his mouth and Arthur placed the piece of meat inside. Watching the disgusted look on his face made Arthur grin even wider. His pain filled him with so much delight; he was surprised he wasn't on the floor laughing. As Francis moved the piece around in his mouth, he could taste the iron in it; making him want to gag. If he could, he would have spit it out, but he was much too afraid of what Arthur would do. Just as he did, the blond gave up on trying to chew it and finally swallowed the flesh. It was such an odd feeling, the flesh, _his flesh,_ sliding down his throat.

"I-I think it tastes like pork," he finally rasped out. "I-it tastes more bitter than pork; p-perhaps it's more like veal…. I-I really do not know…"

Pursing his lips a bit in thought, the Brit nodded his head. "Yes, I do think you're right. Both do taste rather similar to you." Shaking his head he let out a small chuckle. "I suppose not everything tastes like chicken." Taking another piece, he held it up for Francis. "Open wide now."

Doing as he was told, he was fed a few more pieces of the organ; wanting to throw up with each one. Arthur too ate the organ and by the time he stopped it already was halfway gone. Tears cascaded from Francis' empty eyes and a sense of cold was starting to creep up on him.

"Now wot shall we do for the second course?" Leaving for just a moment to get a new plate, an idea came to mind. Placing it on the table, he examined his insides a moment before reaching in, pulling out his intestines. He cut the ends and carefully held the bleeding thing in his hands as he walked over to the sink. "This will take a bit of preparing." Placing it in the sink, he began to fill it with warm water. "In the meantime, wot's in the oven should be done. We can eat that while your intestines are being washed."

Grabbing an oven mitt, he opened the door to it and removed the small pan. The eye that was in it now had a slight golden-brown tinge to the outside and looked to be more firm then it was before. Grabbing the pair of tongs that were still on the counter he plucked the eye from the pan and set the pan back on the stove. Returning to Francis, he set it down on the new plate. Taking the fork and dinner knife in hand, he held it down as he cut into the thing. Just as it looked, the outside was a bit firm but most of the inside was still a soft, gooey mush.

Taking half of it on the fork he held it to the bleeding blonds face. "Go on, take it. Don't forget to tell me how it is either."

Once again he did as he was told and took the piece in his mouth. This almost seemed worse then eating his liver. For a moment he had to chew it and the first thing that make to mind was calamari. But then the uncooked inner part filled his mouth making him think of marshmallow fluff. It was so odd to be thinking such things especially when it was himself he was eating. After a moment, he swallowed it; gagging slightly.

"I-it's like eating ch-chicken fat. Th-the outside is rubbery and hard to ch-chew but it slides down e-easily."

"Really now?" Arthur said with a bit of interest. Looking down to the other half, he hummed in thought. "Should I allow you to eat it all or shall I try it myself? Hm, decisions, decisions." Shrugging he quickly popped it into his mouth and began to chew the organ slowly. Frowning, he swallowed it and shook his head. "It's not exactly the greatest. Rather bland, am I right?"

Seeing the slight nod from Francis, he turned and went back to the sink; sloshing the intestine around in the now bloodied water. "It's so tedious to have to clean this," he said with a sigh. "Unfortunately I won't be joining you in dining on it. I'd rather not chance getting sick" Pulling it from the water, he dabbed it with a washcloth and made his way back to the table. Placing it on the empty plate in a heap, he stared at it as if trying to figure out how to slice it. Unable to come up with anything different, he settled on cutting one end into several round pieces. The flesh was difficult to cut into; it was a bit on the rubbery side. Once he was done, he speared one of the round pieces on the fork and held it up for Francis.

"Say, 'Ah'," he encouraged in an almost childish tone.

Opening his mouth, he weakly chewed on the meat; the image of calamari in his mind. It was tasteless, except for iron from the blood, and it was as difficult to chew as it was to cut. As much as he wished it was calamari, he knew fully well it was his own innards he was eating, that he wanted so desperately to throw up. He wasn't sure how long they had been going about this but he had had enough. Such torture like this was unbearable! Francis was sure at least two hours had past.

Another four pieces later and Francis found that he could no longer hold his head up anymore. He was so weak and cold, he couldn't take it anymore. Arthur noticed this and scowled. He wasn't done teaching Francis a lesson, there was so much more that needed to be done! It had only been at least forty or so minutes since he had woken up, how could he already be on the verge of passing out!

Growling angrily, the Brit roughly slapped the side of his head. "Pick your head up! I'm not through with you just yet!"

Francis remained silent and didn't even react to being hit. The cold had made him numb and he was too tired to do anything. This, however, only enraged the Brit all the more. He wasn't going to just let Francis get out of this so easily.

XxXxX

It was well past supper by the time Alaster had gotten to Arthur's house. He had heard Francis was coming by for a visit and decided to stop in and say hi. Approaching his brother's home, the red head pulled a spare key that was hidden in a potted plant on the door step and allowed himself in. Stepping inside, he was surprised as to how quiet the place was.

"Arthur!" the green-eyed male called a bit worried, "Where are you?"

There was silence a moment before the familiar voice responded. "I'm in the kitchen!"

Making his way towards the voice he asked, "Is Francis still 'ere!"

"Yes, he is. And supper is still on the table if you want to join us."

Alaster was about to inform him that this was just a quick visit when he saw the grotesque sight before him. Francis was tied to a chair and drenched in blood; _his _blood! There was a gapping hole where his abdomen was supposed to be and everything that should have been in there was strewn out all over the kitchen table. It was such a disgusting sight and the stench of blood was almost overwhelming!

Standing there, frozen in the door way to the kitchen, he quickly covered his mouth; feeling as if he were about to be sick. That's when he laid eyes on Arthur. He was expecting to find him frightened out of his mind and on the verge of a breakdown. Instead he was standing by the sink with something in his hands… Something that looked sort of like… A stomach! What was even worse was the fact that he was smiling in such a cheerful way, it wasn't normal.

Seeing the blood on Arthur's clothes, Alaster was able to quickly put two and two together. Trying to swallow back the lump in his throat, he quickly, yet hesitantly made his way over to Francis. Was he… _Oh God, he's still alive!_ He thought in horror. It was faint but he could just barely make out the blond males chest rising and falling.

"Francis? Francis, 'old on! A-Ah'll call fer 'elp!" he assured him as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Dialing 999, he moved around the seated male to the back so he could try and undo the binds.

Seeing this, Arthur frowned and made his way over to the two, placing the bloody organ on the table. "Alas, wot are you doing? Won't you stop that and join us for supper?"

Hearing the other he flinched and quickly stood; backing away. "S-stay back! Y-you're not right Arthur!" Hearing someone finally pick up on the other line, he quickly told them to wait a moment. "Just… Just go sit inside an 'elp will come!" Turning his attention back to the woman on the other end, he began to give her Arthur's address.

Watching the older male curiously, Arthur's frown turned into a sickening grin. "You can't help him," he said as he slowly reached for the knife he had been using. "They won't come in time."

Glaring at him from the corner of his eyes, Alaster once again demanded Arthur go sit in the living room.

"It's so wonderful, isn't it? Who knew so many things were inside a human. The human anatomy truly is amazing. And the amount of blood!" The more he spoke, the louder he got and the more hysterical he began to sound. "It's so warm and there's so much! It just keeps coming and coming, it's like it never runs out! And the color! There's nothing in the world that can match it! Nothing!" His crazed eyes were wide as he began to laugh hysterically. It grew louder and louder, causing Alaster to become uneasy.

Suddenly he gripped the handle of the knife tightly and swiftly swung his arm back, only to bring it forward in an arc; the blade slashing the Frenchman's throat open. A horrifying gurgle came from Francis as he struggled to breathe; more crimson fluid streaming from his neck.

Hearing the horrible noise, Alaster looked back to the two and his eyes went wide. "F-Francis!" he cried out.

But Arthur wasn't done. Bringing his arm back once more, he thrust the blade into Francis's neck. Within seconds the convulsing, suffocating body went limp.

Dropping his phone, Alaster tackled the Brit to the ground and pinned him; forcing the knife from his hand. Arthur wasn't fighting back though. He just stared in front of him and continued to laugh that sickening, crazed laugh. It was almost as if he wasn't aware of what he had done.

It wasn't until about ten minutes later that the police and an ambulance showed up to the house.


End file.
